


Contact

by Phantomdotexe



Category: Original Work
Genre: Abduction, Aliens, BDSM, Bodyworship, Dominatrix, Fetish, Latex, Other, Rubber, Submissive, Worship, romantic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-05
Updated: 2020-02-05
Packaged: 2021-02-28 03:53:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,826
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22567366
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Phantomdotexe/pseuds/Phantomdotexe
Summary: You've been abducted. Your captor is interested in you.
Kudos: 4





	Contact

The collar and blinders limit your field of view. You cannot see the entirety of the craft.

It stretches out of eyesight, but it appears to be one single chamber. The side that your feet stretch towards is “down,” for you, and farther down appears to grow larger and wider. “Up,” the side which your head points toward, tapers off. The entire room seems vaguely cone-shaped, but only vaguely. Incomprehensible designs seem to take up what little “wall” space is not used by other receptacles.

The only light that enters your strange casket comes through the viewport at eye level, and the occasional readout that flashes from the interior. If the other pods that seem to line the walls of the room are any indicator, then your pod is essentially a featureless white-and-gray coffin with a small glass port to let the visitor examine you.

You only receive one visitor. Only one comes to examine you - to pay respects to what you hope will not be your coffin. She glides by in free fall, giving you only the briefest glimpses of your captor. When she comes close, your pod slides open, giving you the briefest glimpse at her entire form - but the light is too bright, and you find yourself shutting your eyes at the chaotic mix of colors that invades your sight. She recoils, and then you grow accustomed to the darkness. This repeats.It isn’t long before you grow a sense of longing for the visitor. When she glides past your pod, you suspect she stares. You never see her examine any of the other pods. It may be that they are empty, and that you are her only abductee, her only specimen; or it may be that she fancies yours.

The interior of your plastic prison gives you no indications to measure the length of your captivity. No windows in the vessel give you a glimpse of any stellar bodies that could indicate chronometry. Instead you stew for what seems like endless periods of seclusion, with time passing slowly or quickly as in a dream. Your sojourn is broken up only by her visits and the occasional rumination on your abduction. These reflections are consistently interrupted whenever you see her outline glide across your pod.

This is the state in which she first attends to you. The door slides open and you see her, and you are surprised. She is tall, with reddish fair skin and wide hips. Her visage is thin but deep, with eyes so pale they look to be white and short blonde hair that floats wildly in the limited gravity. Completely nude, your head is angled such a way that most of her body is cut off from your view. She moves very close. You can smell her breath. You can see her expression; inquisitive but emotionless, gauging your reactions but not reacting to you. One hand touches your facial features as though she were blind. She retracts the hand and closes the pod.

***

Time passes. You think you sleep, you occasionally wake. You’re not certain how time passes, and because of your seclusion, you’re not entirely certain that it does.

***

Your pod’s movement was extremely jarring. Your tiny window shut, rendering you blind and deaf to the world - save the sounds of external hissing and the loud crunches of your pod on the structure. When it finished its journey, the pod fell away, retracting and disappearing behind you.

Mixing stark white devices and colorful structure, the room disorients you - you cannot see the holding area you were in prior. You can see the visitor. She glides over in free fall and floats nearer to you, but not so close as to touch you. Images appear in front of your eyes, projected from her mind or from her machines - you know not which. They flash so rapidly you have barely time to comprehend and see what they are. War, peace, pestilence and joy - the multitude seems to reach every aspect of the human condition. When you react, she reacts as well, mimicking your facial expressions.

When the interminable test ends, she simply floats and stares. Occasionally she cocks her head. Once, she opens her mouth. You can see her tongue flex, her breathing change from a measured beat to an animalistic pant. You feel yourself growing aroused. It is only then that you realize she is only mimicking your own expression. Quickly, the sensation of bright red blush fills your cheeks. She blushes as well, though not as brightly. Your only wish, for a brief moment, is to hide your head so that the visitor cannot see your embarrassment. Whether she is all-powerful or merely mortal, she is omnipotent, completely in control of your situation - and you showed her the basest of base emotions, the most carnal of human desires. You know she is paying attention - watching, judging, and making conclusions.

The tests continue. Over long stretches, the tests shift in form. She no longer shows you images, but smells or sounds. Eventually, they change to combinations of sensations and images. You notice they become interspersed with images of her. Nude or clothed, wearing combinations of clothing, varying facial expressions. She is always in the room with you when these occur- perhaps invalidating the test, but nonetheless exposing you to more and more of the visitor. It is strange to see an image of her smiling or groaning or furious, yet to have her nearby with a relaxed, nearly emotionless face.

Either the tests are inconclusive, or she wants more data. She always wants more data. Different chairs, different poses; never totally free or unbound, but always more. And it is more that you willingly give her. She observes everything you do; she is completely focused on your reactions. In time, you understand that the visitor understands them - she might not comprehend them, but she recognizes stimuli and response. She begins to notice that you are easily stimulated by her presence and her presence alone, even in the absence of other testing.

***

The day comes when she stops testing, and begins exploring. A series of metallic beads orbit around your head, suspended in place by methods unseen. She watches and stares, and you remain silent, knowing that she is not interested - and will not respond - to a base method of communication as speech.

The satellites that circle your head project images into the air. They are not images she has shown you. They are images that you have imagined; history and human emotions. You try to communicate with the visitor; giving her some understanding of what it means to be a human. Your thoughts are projected, and while not a perfect message, you can see her expression change. She kicks off the wall and floats closer. Her visage meets yours, and you feel yourself overjoyed at her comprehension.

Images on the wall shift, and your joy turns to abashed embarrassment and horror. She stares at the wall as it fills with the most lurid and lascivious concepts now fill her vessel. Close-ups of the visitor’s curvy thighs, her delicate feet, her generous bust and fingers; images of you cradling them, nuzzling them, worshipping them; sounds of your endless obedience and gratitude for her very presence and all of them overt and visible for you and her to see. You don’t want her to see this.

And yet, there are things you wish you could show her; you have wanted to explain to her for so long how much you appreciated her visits. When you were alone and in that pod, you craved for her attention; to bless you with the dignity of her form, to show her your devotion with words or actions. Now, it has come to pass - albeit in a manner far more direct than you would have hoped. But she stares, and she observes, and you can see that her comprehension of what you are has increased.

She thinks on it for a time, folding her legs and letting the images fly past. She ruminates on your idiosyncrasies. The visitor turns to you and the barest edges of a smile creep across her face.

You nearly tear up when the pod rebuilds itself around you. The tiny hole that was once your window to her visits is closed. There is immense regret; regret that you thought you were worthy of her attentions, and regret you could not show the visitor your truest feelings.

When the pod collapses again, you can see stars. One wall is an endless expanse of black dotted by islands of white. The other three walls are covered in objects from Earth of diverse styles. Each of them - the chairs, the table, the couch, and the bed - all seem to be widlly divergent in design. Some are bright colors, others a dark wood, and other still seem to be made of metal or stone. And yet, you smile, sensations appear in your mind to tell you that this is supposed to be a place of comfort and familiarity - a middle-ground of understanding.

The visitor tells you this herself. She sits on a couch, one leg crossed over the other, each of her feet ending in a long heel and each of her gloved hands entwined on her lap. That creamy skin that you so craved to touch is disappeared beneath a single, endless layer of gloss black running from the top of her neck to the tip of her shrouded toes. As you rise, the pod that was twice your prison collapses into the floor and disappears. No elements of experimentation or testing detract from the room.

She tilts her head up and to the left twice; the barest and most subtle of motions to indicate you should walk towards her. Gravity seems comparable to what you once considered ‘normal,’ but you find yourself naturally drawn to crawling instead. The smile widens as you approach her - one hand after the other on an elaborate and antiquated carpet. The squeaks coming from your form indicate a match - you, like her, wear a single-piece suit. There is no obvious point of entry or exit.

A moment passes, and you realize you are staring. Your companion uncrosses her legs and leans forward. You bow your head, averting your eyes. A gloved hand takes your hair in her hand and pushes you down, meeting little resistance until you reach the floor. The rest of your body follows suit, taking up a pose of obsequious worship. In this realm, she is a queen; a veritable goddess, one who deserves your obedience and service.

Her response doesn’t come in the form of words. Puzzle pieces invade your mind in the form of diverse smells and sounds and sights. Gibberish code in isolation forms into abstract and then concrete concepts once exposed to all of them.

She does not understand your language, even after a long series of tests, but she understands your reactions and your thoughts about her. She is appreciative of your desires, and appreciative of you. A tingle goes down your spine - she wants to show her appreciation. She will grant you the honor, the pleasure, the rare treat of touching and servicing her. Your mistress reciprocates the desires you expressed in visions. She tugs your head upwards by the hair and drags it closer to her feet and legs. You are not permitted to touch her bare flesh, but you crave it all the same.It is slightly painful, having your hair tugged, but you find yourself enjoying it. Physical sensations have been denied you so long.

The visitor leans back. You kiss at her feet. Your lips meet the glossy latex-like substance of her seamless ‘boots’ - high heels that you quietly fantasized her wearing. You pull away as the sound of your own peck echoes in your ears. A tiny web of saliva ties your puckered lips to her ankle. The Goddess doesn’t seem to mind - especially not when you return to her ebony-black skin for more worship.

You move your hands up and down her ankles, massaging at strong muscles adapted to travel. She permits you to move further up, rubbing, kissing, embracing, and simply leaning your head against her calves and up to her knees.

“Beauty,” you whisper. “You are so beautiful,” you say idly. She tilts her head a millimeter to the left. She doesn’t understand your language, but she now understands the look on your face. Her smile grows again from a pouty chuckle to what approaches a grin.

She takes your head in both hands, cradling it like a prized possession. Her thumbs gently rub against your temples and cheeks, scanning your skin. It’s nostalgic.

You lean forward, now on your knees and she takes you closer. You can feel stirrings deep within as she parts her legs.

Those gratuitous, well-endowed thighs teased you so when she would move across your field of view. Such glimpses were reminiscent of a vintage pin-up model. More than once you pictured her on the side of an aircraft - “Let’s get ‘em!” or “Look out below!” stenciled next to Her image. When bored, you’d imagine her in pulpy and provocative poses - taking off a sailor’s cap, or straddling the plane. Inevitably, your mind would wander, and she would straddle other things closer to your heart.

You touch her inner thigh; perfect, enclosed in something soft and silky and seamless, and most importantly belonging to Her - your visitor, your captor, your goddess. She leans back, propping herself up with her hands as you engage with the visitor’s legs. You’re overjoyed, aroused, and enjoying yourself. You gently lick and nuzzle at the inner edge of her powerful upper leg, ending in a string of dainty kisses leading towards her belly.

Something changes, and for the briefest moment, you fear that you have angered her. But no - the puzzle-pieces of information are again flashed to your brain, and she soothes you that you are being rewarded, not punished.

A garment now covers your face. All is dark. You stand in the same pose you did mere seconds before, but your face has disappeared. You lean back and run your fingers over it; it is now covered in a hood of the same gloss black that she has encased you in. It’s liberating, in a way- to feel totally anonymous before your Goddess, to feel totally enclosed and without ties to the silly creature that she examined in her lab. You can breathe normally, although the only opening is around your mouth.

A ring keeps your mouth agape; mostly rigid, you can deform it slightly when you bite down hard, but ultimately it retains its shape. Your tongue protrudes through the gag, and you feel an occasional drop of saliva forming and dropping. Beneath your hood, she cannot see your embarrassment. She doesn’t seem to care. This becomes clear when she takes your head in her hands.

You’re in ecstasy as she puts you between her legs. You don’t merely service her; you adore her, showing the utmost in gratitude as your gagged mouth gently licks at her boots, her legs, her thighs; you groan audibly when she takes you against her roughly, jamming your hooded head deep against her. Your tongue alone is not put to work, and she generously allows you time to nuzzle and cuddle and gently rub against her. There is an intense intimacy at times; when she pulls you against her stomach for a moment, providing a moment of respite - or giving you a chance to paw at her, blind but for the grace of her hands. You rub at her back and her rear, and she reciprocates with rewards; pats on the head, gentle rubs, and touches - blissful molestation as she deigns to treat you with a tiny fraction of the attention you give her.

When she eventually returns you to her thighs, she utilizes you with great - and unexpected - gusto. Her stamina is just one of the many things you find yourself growing to adore, and you show it through earnest worship of her body. When she finally decides that she’s had enough between your thighs, she takes you onto the couch with her. Lying across it, she gently eases you on top of her.

You can hear your heart beating - and you’re fairly sure you can hear the sounds of your Goddess as well. She gently guides you. After a modicum of wrangling, you are positioned on top of her; your head firmly resting on her bust, her hands on your head, and both your hands at your sides.

The impossibly tight suit limits your touch. No sights or smells enter your senses; only the knowledge that she has chosen you to rest on her body and the sounds that enter your covered ears provide stimulus.

In your limited world, the sound of her beating heart is all you know.

**Author's Note:**

> There were issues in the transfer process. The text you see here is the result of memory-to-text output; the sensorium simulation is forced to display your recollections in a visual text format, rather than the experiential playback that was intended.
> 
> However, the thoughts are still yours, and the sensations all true.
> 
> \---
> 
> Carl Sagan's Contact and the film adaptation are both mature stories about intimacy, trust, scientific progress, and communication. My version appeals to a different demographic.
> 
> If you're familiar with my other stories, you have some idea what to expect.


End file.
